FICTIONAL CHARACTERS

Do they ever want to escape?
Climb out of the white pages
and enter our world?

Holden Caulfield slipping in the movie theater
to catch the two o’clock
Anna Karenina sitting in a diner,
reading the paper as the waitress
serves up a cheeseburger.

Even Hector, on break from the Iliad,
takes a stroll through the park,
admires the tulips.

Maybe they grew tired
of the author’s mind,
all its twists and turns.

Or were finally weary
of stumbling around Pamplona,
a bottle in each fist,
eating lotuses on the banks of the Nile.

For others, it was just too hot
in the small California town
where they’d been written into
a lifetime of plowing fields.

Whatever the reason,
here they are, roaming the city streets
rain falling on their phantasmal shoulders.

Wouldn’t you, if you could?
Step out of your own story,
to lean against a doorway
of the Five & Dime, sipping your coffee,

your life, somewhere far behind you,
all its heat and toil nothing but a tale
resting in the hands of a stranger,
the sidewalk ahead wet and glistening.

Danusha Laméris |  The Moons of August, 2014

JO Barrios | Vessels, 2020

SHIRLEY

Spending the evening with Ms Jackson, after re-reading one of my favourite short stories, The Lottery,  and assigning it to Junior as part of her homeschool English curriculum. So good!

THE DAILY DOG

THE DAILY DOG

ARTICULATED

Farming While Black

Lil Baby | The Bigger Picture

Billie + Finneas ♥ ♥

Dave Chapelle | 8:46

Brit Bennett | I Don’t Know What to do with Good White People

Gil Scott-Heron | The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

photograph | Andrea Modica

76 | 100

♥ PAPI ♥

We love you so much, Daddy! ♥

♥ CLEO WADE ♥

. . . find truth beyond the stories you are told . . .  ♥

THE DAILY DOG

WEATHER

On a scrap of paper in the archive is written
I have forgotten my umbrella. Turns out
in a pandemic everyone, not just the philosopher,
is without. We scramble in the drought of information
held back by inside traders. Drop by drop. Face
covering? No, yes. Social distancing? Six feet
under for underlying conditions. Black.
Just us and the blues kneeling on a neck
with the full weight of a man in blue.
Eight minutes and forty-six seconds.
In extremis, I can’t breathe gives way
to asphyxiation, to giving up this world,
and then mama, called to, a call
to protest, fire, glass, say their names, say
their names, white silence equals violence,
the violence of again, a militarized police
force teargassing, bullets ricochet, and civil
unrest taking it, burning it down. Whatever
contracts keep us social compel us now
to disorder the disorder. Peace. We’re out
to repair the future. There’s an umbrella
by the door, not for yesterday but for the weather
that’s here. I say weather but I mean
a form of governing that deals out death
and names it living. I say weather but I mean
a November that won’t be held off. This time
nothing, no one forgotten. We are here for the storm
that’s storming because what’s taken matters.

Claudia Rankine, June 2020

JO Barrios | Primitivos, 2020

HALLELUJAH | NOW WE ARE FREE